You're Late
by Beckles909
Summary: Sherlock just had to jump off of that bloody rooftop, leaving John Watson to pick up the pieces. John sees him everywhere, and is tortured with dreams of what life would be like if he'd never met that amazing man at all.
1. Chapter 1

My name is John Watson. I am 36 years old. Six years ago I was invalided home from Afghanistan where I was shot in the right shoulder serving as a doctor in the British army. It was then, sitting in the bell jar of my lost life that I met Sherlock Holmes. He was a man who should have unsettled me beyond belief, but from the first time that we spoke, I felt at home. Love at first sight is the easiest way to describe what I had with him.

Meeting him woke me up; he made me whole again. He taught me to value my life above all else and what true friendship is. He taught me so much.

It's been nearly three years since I lost him. Every night, I wake up crying… or screaming his name. In my dreams I watch him jump from the hospital with his arms spread like wings, but he can't fly; he just falls. I feel his limp wrist with no pulse against my fingers. I see his dented skull and his black curls soaked in blood. I see his dead, grey eyes staring at me… pleading for me to forgive him. _No, Sherlock; I will never forgive you. Why did you do this to me? _

Three years: that's a very long time. There's not a day that goes by that I don't miss him. Everywhere I go, I swear I see him, but that's impossible. That's just some tall stranger in a long coat with dark, impossible hair. They aren't him. It will never be him… he's dead. Still, I can't help thinking that he will just walk up to me in a café or of a street corner. I'd hug him, hold him close and breathe in his scent, just to make sure he was really alive… then I'd punch him in the face and scream at him for putting me through this. I know that this is just wishful thinking. He's gone and not coming back, but still I search for him everywhere in my once again broken life. _Save me from the tedium of my actions. Restore me to the man I am supposed to be. You did it once and were right on time, so do it again. You're terribly late this time, my Sherlock. _


	2. Chapter 2

When I'm not dreaming about him dying, I dream about my life without Sherlock. I don't mean my life now, I mean my life if I have never met him at all. These dreams affect me as violently as the ones of his suicide. I shudder just thinking of them. If I'd never met him, then I wouldn't be hurting like this. Never meeting him means that I wouldn't have this gaping hole in my chest that he took with him when he jumped off of that bloody building. If I'd never met him, however the void in my life would be far worse than just an empty heart. I would be an empty man, altogether. At least I have the memories of us together… even though they pain me more than I can describe, I'm glad to have them. _I wouldn't trade you for anything. I love you. I miss you. Come back to me._

I'm walking through Postman's Park with a coffee in one hand and a cane in the other. My full weight in leaning on it for support. According to my therapist, this limp of mine is psychosomatic… she can fuck off; I know how badly it hurts.

London looks different to me since I've been back. It used to be my favourite place, but now it looks ugly. It's full of people who are sad like me who care about things that aren't important. They don't really care; they just need a distraction from how unhappy they are. I know how unhappy I am; I face it day by day. It consumes my every thought, and that's why I hardly pay attention when a heavy-set man calls out my name and chases me down.

Turning around, I see that it is one of my old medical school friends, Mike Stamford. God, I haven't seen him in ages, and I don't really care to see him now. Still, I agree to sit and talk to him on his lunch break. He tells me about his work at St. Barts Hospital, and he subtly tries to pry information about my time in the army. I don't want to talk about myself, but he insists, asking about my living arrangements. "You can get a flat share, or something," he offers, trying to help.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flat mate?" It's true. Who would want a middle-aged depressed, out-of-work soldier living in their home? I can't even stand to be in my _own_ company half of the time. Mike starts to giggle out of nowhere. I narrow my brows at him, quizzically. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing. I was just remembering that time you lived with me for a month… God, you were awful." I smirk at him, remembering how I always forgot when it was my turn to do the laundry, and how I'd always skip out before he could get me to do the washing up. My smile fades, when I realize that something is missing, but I can't put my finger on it.

_It's you Sherlock. This is where you're supposed to dazzle me with your intellect. This is where you pull me in, and leave me begging for more. This is where I tell you that you're brilliant, and you look at me like you've never been given a compliment in all of your life. This is where you come in… so why aren't you? You're late._

Two days later, I pick up a newspaper on my way to a café. Serial Suicides Case Cracked: the front page reads. I remember reading about those, they'd caught my attention. It's good to see that everything went well. I skim through the story and move onto the politics session…. Those damn Tories.

_So you picked the right pill… I thought you did. You didn't need me to save you after all. Maybe you never needed me the whole time I had you… is that why you're so late this time?_


	3. Chapter 3

I met a girl this week on the tube. Her name's Victoria. She's pretty. I took her to dinner tonight, and we passed a theatre that was having some sort of Chinese circus. A feeling of annoyance and fear crept over me, but I didn't know why. Victoria asked me what was wrong. I answered nothing, because that's exactly what it was. Then she linked her arm through mine, and we walked on.

Later, she asked me up to her flat where we had sex. The feeling of her legs wrapped around my hips and her lips on my neck should have made me feel happy, but I just felt alone. She whispered filthy words into my ear and dug her nails into my back, but rather than turning me on, it made me sad. Why? Why couldn't I just enjoy her?

_Because this isn't where I'm meant to be. I should be inches from death, strapped to a chair whilst I watch my date hopelessly struggle away from an impending arrow. You're supposed to burst in at the very last minute and save us both. I told you that you were late then… you weren't. You were right on time. Why can't you be now?_

In the past week, there have been stories on the news of two separate explosions around London. They say it's just a gas leakage. That's a dangerous business isn't it? It makes me worry about my own pipes.

I was on my way to Tescos last night when I passed by a community centre. On the door they were advertising for swimming lessons. My memories raced straight to a dead end. There was something familiar there, but I couldn't tell what it was. There was a big empty space where something was missing… something big. Shrugging it off, I continued to the store.

_Your face looked so scared when you saw me walk out with semtex strapped across my chest. You tried to hide it, but I could tell. It looked like you loved me; did you? Not like it matters anymore. That night, you pointed a gun at Moriarity, but he said it was the wrong time to die. Did he know then? Did he know then that he was going to take you from me later on? Did you know? Oh, Sherlock, please say you didn't._


	4. Chapter 4

I _look at this time in our lives when you were in your prime. You were spectacular, stunning everyone with all of the amazing things that you can do. We were happy… well I was happy. I think you were too. _

_Every week you solved a new case, and I would write about our adventures. You started getting quite the fan base. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous of the people who wanted to sleep with you: the second types of fans. You paid them no mind, however. You only had time for me. Me and your work. It made me feel special that you made time for me._

I have a job at a local surgery. It's dull and beneath me, but it pays the bills. Every day is the same: I wake up, rolling groggily over to kiss my girlfriend, Mary on the cheek before getting out of bed to take a shower. By the time I'm out, Mary's waiting for me with a cup of tea and piece of toast. She tells me she loves me and sends me on my way to work. I see annoying patients about trivial illnesses and pains until lunch which I have with Mary. She complains about her students [she's a primary school teacher], and I listen politely. Then it's back to work until 17:00. I get home and Mary and I cook dinner together. Then we watch telly: some crap show that makes us laugh together. Before bed, we make love, lying in one another's arms until we drift off to sleep.

It's nice to be in a relationship. Mary looks at me like I'm the greatest man on Earth. I'm just lucky to have her. She's empathetic and silly. She's normal. With her, I am normal. I should be happy, satisfied, but something is wrong.

_It's you that I love. I should be getting kidnapped by your brother and brought to Buckingham Palace. I should be searching your sock drawer for drugs and listening to you compose sad music on your violin. I should be desperately trying to convince Irene Adler that we're not a couple. I should be jealously watching you and her banter cleverly about a fucking camera phone. I should be there for you when I tell you she's dead. You loved her, didn't you? I know you did, because it hurt me whenever you looked at her. _

_I shouldn't be with Mary… but this is just a dream. I'm not with Mary; I am alone. I am still waiting around for my dead best friend to show up. I need to give up. I need to face the reality that you're not late at all; you're just never coming back._


	5. Chapter 5

Last night, Mary and I curled up on the sofa to watch a documentary on _The Hound of Baskerville. _Some poor bloke was telling a story about how his father was murdered by some super dog way back in the day. Mary felt sorry for him, and cuddled up closer to me. I put my arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

The show talked about tours running through Dartmoor to look for this hound of hell. Mary joked that we should do that one week end. I laughed along with her, but felt incredibly sad.

_You and I went there. The innkeeper thought we were a couple; I didn't correct him. I don't care what people think anymore. _

_It was on that trip that you broke my heart. You told me I wasn't your friend. How could you say that to me, Sherlock? After everything that we'd been through. God, I would have died for you, and you said… what you said. Never in my whole life did I feel as worthless as I did in that moment. You know exactly how to hurt me._

_But you also know how to get me back. "I don't have friends… I've just got one." I still think about you saying that. It was in that moment that I wanted to kiss you. I turned and walked away instead, because I didn't want to ruin everything. _

_I should have kissed you. Thinking back on it now, it seems like the perfect time. Would you still be dead now if I would have crossed that barrier then? Could I have saved you?_

The papers are full of excitement over this James Moriarity fellow. I must say, that is very impressive for him to break into all of those places. They're all saying that he has a key code that could crash the world around our ears. I hope they lock him up. I don't like the looks of him.

There's another name in the paper, but I don't care enough to read it. It's just some guy who's testifying against this Moriarity character. Why should I care?

_Wake up, you idiot! It's Sherlock! There's still time to be with him! _


	6. Chapter 6

Mary gasps, covering her hand over her mouth. I look up to see her holding the morning paper at the breakfast table. "What is it?" I ask.

"This man jumped off of St. Barts yesterday," she answers, showing me the paper.

My heart races in my chest. "Who is he?"

"Some private detective or something. Apparently he was caught faking all of his cases. He couldn't face the humiliation, so he killed himself… that is so sad." She shakes her head.

_Yes Mary, what a pity. I don't need your sympathy. I don't need any of your fucking concern. It's your fault that I wasn't there for him when he jumped, this time. What do you know about Sherlock Holmes? Nothing! Keep your comments to yourself._

I have felt so empty all week… I wish I knew why.

_I know why. I feel it every day of my life. How do you like this dream, John? Do you prefer not having him? No, you don't. You're still hurting even though you don't know him. You miss him even know with all of your ignorance. It's time to wake up now._

Will I ever come to terms with the death of Sherlock Holmes? Honestly, I don't think I will. It feels like I'll be trapped forever in a labyrinth of memories and bad dreams. I'll always question my what-ifs and why did he do its?

Everything will continue to remind me of him. I'll never go near Baker Street again. I'll never meet a woman like Mary and share my life with her. I will only ever belong to a dead man who is three years late for a meeting he will never turn up to.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm in Regents Park; it's the closest I will come to Baker Street. Even being this near to our old home hurts. Taking deep breaths, I sit on a bench and think of him. Time has not fogged the portrait of him that hangs in my mind. He's stuck in a film strip of our three years together; it constantly plays on repeat in my head. I know it line for line, step by step, and touch for touch. Every feeling I ever had for you is still there being felt all at once… it's like drowning.

Maybe going back to 221b is what I need. Closure… that's what they call that, right? It's worth a try. Besides, I can't possibly get any worse than I am already… right?

I still have my key to the doors. Sentiment. Sherlock always said sentiment was a chemical default found in the losing side. He were right. Losing him was my all-time greatest defeat.

Rather than popping in to see Mrs. Hudson, I go straight upstairs to the flat. I hold my breath as I turn the key in our door. There it is… looking exactly the same. Just like Sherlock, the flat has been kept safe from the harsh hands of time. [It seems I'm the only one who suffers from its transformations.] Poor Mrs. Hudson; she loved him too. If I wasn't so absorbed in the familiar atmosphere, I would feel guilty about never visiting with her.

It smells like him. Christ, this is too much. He's everywhere I look, not just in my memories but in the flat. There's his microscope. His maps on the wall, stuck full of tacks. The skull is sitting on the mantelpiece. I pick it up and find a full pack of cigarettes that I had hidden from him. Tears fill my throat and my heart pounds in my chest. There are our chairs, turned slightly towards each other in front of the fire place. I screw up my mouth against my rapidly approaching tears. Fuck. No one ever said it would be this hard. No one ever warns you about these things.

The sofa is empty. He should be there, stretched out with his eyes closed and his hands steepled under his chin. I should be in the kitchen making tea and grumbling about the thumbs in the refrigerator. None of this is right. This was a mistake. I'm drowning again. It's too much. I need to get out.

I hurry towards the door on heavy legs, but stop when I hear a noise from behind me. "John." Just my name said by an impossible voice. That voice is gone. I will never hear that voice again except for in my head. That's all that this is; it's just in my head… but it's not. I turn around slowly, and there he is.

Sherlock looks the same. He's in his pajamas and blue dressing gown. His long, bony feet are bare. He looks scared and sad. His chest rises and falls with breath. His hair is flattened on one side like it always looked when he woke up. His skull is not dented in. He looks so real.

I rub my eyes, but he's still there when I look again. But he can't be. He's dead. I watched him jump. I watched him die. I was there when they buried him. He's gone. He's not here.

But he is. "Sherlock," I croak.

"It's really me, John." He takes a step towards me. My feet stay still. "I'm not dead." The words echo through my mind without making sense. I stare at him unblinking. If I blink, he'll go away. He reaches out for me and puts his hand on my shoulder. "John," he says. I fall into his arms and grip him tightly. I lean my head against his chest and hear his heart beating. I grab his wrist with my fingers and feel the pulse. I touch his face, feeling every line and every pore. He just stares at me with sad eyes that swoop over my face hungry for the smallest change in me. At this unfeasible moment I just want to fade into him. That way, if he were to disappear, I would go with him.

"Are you real?" I whisper. He nods. "But I watched you die. You… you're in the ground. You can't be here…." He grabs my hand and lays it on his chest.

"It was just a magic trick," he says, quoting himself.

He's really here, under my fingertips. These past three years he's been here all along… suddenly rage consumes my entire body. "You've been here alive for the past three fucking years?" I spit at him. His eyes narrow in confusion. I know this look. He's missed a step. Whilst he tries to work out where he's gone wrong, I cock my fist back and bring it back to punch him in the face.

Sherlock stumbles backwards, clutching his cheek. There's going to be a sizable bruise there quite soon. He smiles at me and chuckles as I stand there clutching my fists and breathing heavily. With that punch, my anger subsided a great deal. Instead, I am filled with relief. "I'm sorry, John," he says coming back towards me. "I'm a bit late, I'm afraid."

I smile back at him and shake my head. "No, Sherlock; you're right on time."


End file.
